


Nick and Harry's Infinite Playlist

by Writcraft



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, Light Bondage, M/M, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-07-25 14:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: At an indeterminate point in the future it happens, just when Nick least expects it.





	Nick and Harry's Infinite Playlist

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn’s _Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist_ , although Nick and Harry’s story bears no resemblance to Nick and Norah’s. Thank you so much to R and S for pre-reading, any remaining mistakes are my own.

**#Intro**

It seems apt that it should begin just as everything else ends.

It happens on the back of another scorching summer that makes London smell like sweat, rubbish and over-heated tarmac. It’s the same summer that Nick hands in his BBC staff pass and walks out of the building, his head held high and his stomach in knots. The same summer he turns the key in the lock of his Hackney house for the last time. The summer he (finally) gives up smoking, that ends abruptly with the arrival of an unexpected thunderstorm.

The day he leaves Hackney behind, Nick drives to Primrose Hill where so many things began. He lies on the common in the dying rays of the afternoon sun and thinks _I can be alone_ and knows that this time he really means it. Just as he comes to terms with perpetual bachelorhood, Pig and Stinky nose at him, his phone buzzes with notifications from the WhatsApp group Aimee set up ages ago and Eileen texts a reminder about a birthday party for a neighbour. She’s making trifle. It reminds Nick he’s never alone, not really. But he’s okay being alone in other ways. The chase for something that always felt just out of reach is over. That too is an ending of sorts.

It’s also the summer that the papers fill with photographs of Harry kissing another man in another bar on another continent. That should have been an ending too. A final nail in the coffin of a thousand broken beginnings.

It’s funny how it ends up being the start of everything.

**False Start #1: Million Voices (Otto Knows)**

_[instrumental]_

The first time Nick meets Harry Styles, something shifts. At the time he thinks of it as like being underwater and finally coming up for air. After, he puts it down to the Chardonnay.

 _I’m Harry_ shouldn’t be a devastating introduction and yet somehow, it is.

“I’m Nick. Grim, if you want.” Nick’s response is equally captivating, no doubt. He’s hardly to blame. It’s difficult to be smooth when you’re wearing a sky-blue suit that looks like it should have died with the eighties.

“I know,” Harry replies. He’s a dizzying combination of boyish innocence and the kind of filthy look that’s a heartbeat away from getting Nick into a whole world of trouble. “I remember you from the telly.” His voice is slow and syrupy, the edge of a Northern twang pleasing and familiar. “Pleased to meet you.”

Nick loves a polite boy and he shakes Harry’s hand, squeezing it for just long enough to know that if Harry’s that way inclined, Nick’s probably interested.

“Pleased to meet you too,” Nick says.

Harry grins and squeezes Nick’s hand back for just a beat too long.

It’s like a promise, without any words.

*

“My mouth tastes like something died in it,” Nick says. He stretches in his seat, chucking off his headphones. He’s had enough coffees that even though it’s midnight, he’s still wired.

Harry, helpful soul that he is, supplies a Polo mint and follows Nick to the car. “Can I come back to yours?”

“Obviously.” Nick shoots Harry a smile over the top of the car. “Wouldn’t want to leave you out on the street at the mercy of all those 1D fans wanting to get off with _’Arry Styles_.”

“Shut up.” Harry slips into the passenger seat and stares at Nick. He licks his lips and gives Nick a smile that does peculiar things to Nick’s insides. “Good show tonight.”

“It’s always a good show.” Nick puts the key in the ignition and fiddles with the radio until the car fills with music. “I’m very talented.”

“Yeah.” Harry pushes closer to Nick, the space in the car feeling smaller than before. “I liked it.” He obviously liked it more than Nick’s usual listeners, because he places a damp kiss on Nick’s jaw. “I liked it a lot.”

“Give over.” Nick laughs, drawing Harry in for a proper kiss. They haven’t done this before, but Harry’s obviously angling for something. Kisses aren’t a big deal to Nick, and he gets that sometimes it’s nice just to have a cheeky snog. He kissed Pixie at a party last week and suspects Harry’s after more of the same. He fully intends to keep a nice, safe, platonic distance. He means to keep the kiss light and teasing, just a peck on the lips to satisfy whatever it is that’s on Harry’s mind. A kiss with a friend that doesn’t mean anything. 

Harry parts his lips and surges forward, fucking up Nick’s hair with his grabby hands. He breaks away after a minute, his breathing jagged and his curls awry. 

“Never done that before,” Harry says.

“Never been kissed?” Nick aims for a joke because his heart is about to thump out of his chest. Kissing Harry didn’t feel safe at all. “You’re like Drew Barrymore, off of that film.”

“Not with another guy,” Harry clarifies. He pulls his lip between his teeth and gives Nick the kind of look that’s fast making him a bouffant-haired reality TV heartthrob.

Nick pushes his hands into said hair and kisses Harry again.

This time, he kisses like it means something.

*

Nick isn’t sure he’s ready for Harry Styles to become intimately acquainted with his dick, but he’s also not about to say no when Harry slides to his knees while the party hums on downstairs. The music filters into the room with a low murmur, and Nick hopes to fuck nobody tries the bedroom door in a drunken moment. Ever since that first kiss it’s been telly as background noise, a messy tangle of limbs and snogging on the sofa like Nick’s fifteen all over again. They haven’t done this, though. They haven’t ever done this.

“Can I?” Harry starts to unbuckle Nick’s belt, looking up at him from his position on the floor. His voice is low and measured, as if he too appreciates that the moment is something important.

“‘Course you can.” Nick brushes his thumb over Harry’s cheek and leans back on his hands, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling. “What the fuck are we doing?”

“Helping each other feel good,” Harry says. He sounds like he’s smiling.

At least Nick knows. It makes it pretty clear that this is just physical and if Harry wants to experiment, Nick doesn’t mind being experimented on. Some people get their knickers in a twist over that sort of thing, but Nick’s had blow jobs from the most unexpected places and he’s never had any complaints. There was a run of parties when it felt like every supposedly straight popstar was easy for a bit of messing about. Nick enjoyed it. Even though he already knows Harry’s different—none of those fit young things came along for the weekly Tescos shop and stayed in Nick’s bed for three nights in a row—he tells himself it’s the same. Just a bit of fun, probably going to be over by the end of the next song.

He props himself up so he can see Harry properly, taking in the serious furrow of his brow and the look of concentration on his face. He shifts to help Harry yank his skinny jeans down to an acceptable position, and glances at the door which remains resolutely shut.

“Hurry up, Styles. I don’t want to end up flashing Alexa.”

“As if you haven’t already,” Harry mutters. He presses a light kiss to Nick’s thigh, which is sweet considering what they’re about to do isn’t sweet in the slightest. Maybe Nick will get a tattoo there, one day. Mark up his body with all the places Harry’s kissed and all the places he hasn’t. “You okay?”

“I will be,” Nick promises. He touches Harry’s chin, tipping his head back and taking in the bright eyes and flush in his cheeks. “Sure about this?”

“I’m not a virgin, Grim,” Harry says, decisively.

 _Haven’t done this before though_ , Nick thinks. His heart does the strange, fond kick that it sometimes does when he looks at Harry’s serious face and impossibly charming smile. He decides not to mention it, not one for going on about romance and forever when beautiful boys come and go. They always, always go. Most of the time, Nick doesn’t even miss them.

“Mind your teeth,” Nick says instead, which makes Harry grin. Whoever said romance is dead?

With a level of concentration that really should be applauded, Harry goes for it. After the first tentative kiss on Nick’s thigh he decides deepthroating (or attempting to) is the logical way to begin his first blow job. He ends up spluttering—not at all endearingly—and pulls back with a low _fuck me_. He frowns at Nick’s cock as if it’s the cause of all Harry’s ills, and then starts again, more slowly this time.

The thing about Harry is, he’s bloody excellent at everything and he’s a competitive little shit. It would be annoying, if Nick didn’t want all good things for him. He catches on to this too, pretty quickly. Harry’s mouth one, Nick’s dick zero. He gets Nick’s cock slick with saliva and leaves him panting as he works his mouth carefully. Apart from a low, teasing grumble about jaw ache, he doesn’t stop for one minute. It’s not long before Nick has a fistful of Harry’s hair in his hand, murmuring words of encouragement as Harry unzips his stupidly tight jeans and stuffs his hand inside. Nick isn’t sure which is hotter: watching Harry’s gorgeous mouth work over Nick or sitting back and watching Harry get himself off. His grunts and groans of enthusiasm make it seem like having Nick’s dick in his mouth is right up there with his favourite porn, and it’s honestly exactly the kind of flattery Nick appreciates.

He twists his hands in Harry’s hair and guides him, as his movements become hurried and unsteady, his mouth sloppy and saliva-slick as he chases his own orgasm with insistent jerks of his hand.

“Me first, love,” Nick says, his voice rough. Harry is a polite boy after all, and Nick’s got a sneaking suspicion he might like being bossed about a bit on occasion.

It turns out to be a good guess, because Harry’s eyes get wide and glassy and with a groan he returns to the task in front of him, stilling the hand on his own cock. When Nick finally comes, Harry pulls back and jerks his hand quickly inside his jeans as he watches Nick. His eyes squeeze shut, and a low, bitten-off curse follows as he comes all over his belly, getting spunk on his skinny jeans. His lips are red and his cheeks dusky, his breath coming in jagged puffs. Someone shouting in the corridor makes Nick nervous and he tucks himself back into his jeans, zipping them up and giving Harry’s hair a quick ruffle of gratitude.

“I’m gonna write a song about this one day,” Harry says, at last. He swipes the back of his hand across his lips and giving Nick a beatific smile.

Nick laughs, and definitely doesn’t believe him.

**False Start #2: We Found Love (Rihanna, Calvin Harris)**

_we found love in a hopeless place_

Nick has never been one for the moral high-ground and yet with Harry, he manages to remain the voice of reason for just about as long as humanly possible. He knows that _having sex_ includes frantic hand jobs in the loos of the Shoreditch House, blowing one another in a messy tangle of sweaty limbs and cotton-crisp sheets and playing footsie under the table while Harry’s lovely mum gives Nick a look that says _I know what you’re up to_. That aside, Nick has carefully avoided Harry’s arse on account of the fact he climbed right to the top of an arse-related moral hill for no discernible reason whatsoever, and he’s been sitting on it like a twat since that first snog in his car.

Harry keeps wriggling around when Nick blows him, making the kind of delightful noises that should be illegal.

“I think you should fuck me,” he demands, not for the first time.

“Later.” Nick gets back to work, sliding his spit-slick lips over Harry’s cock which earns him a (rude) thrust from Harry that activates his gag reflex. With an indignant splutter, Nick pulls off Harry and glares at him. “If you expect me to deepthroat that monster of yours, you’re going to have to let me do it in my own time.”

“I don’t want that.” Harry laughs and gives Nick’s hair a light tug, rolling him over and into a hot, messy kiss when Nick makes his way up the bed. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I said later.” Nick rubs his hand over his eyes and presses his lips to Harry’s jaw, feeling the clench of it beneath them. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why?” Harry frowns at Nick. “I want it to be you.”

Nick stares at Harry. Scientifically lovely Harry who’s going to fuck off to be famous and adored by America very soon. “We shouldn’t,” he repeats, somewhat uselessly as his brain is saying _we should, we should_.

“Why not, Grim?” Harry palms his cock and gives Nick a look that’s probably supposed to be a bit come-hither. It ends up sending them both into a giggle-fit and it takes Nick a good minute to catch his breath. 

“No idea why the press say you’re off seducing everyone. You’re terrible.” Nick actually has every idea how easy it is to fall for Harry’s weird charms, but he chooses not to let Harry know as much. He runs his thumb over Harry’s nipple, giving it a light tweak which makes Harry hiss with pleasure.

“Terrible,” Harry agrees, easily. He reaches into Nick’s drawer because he has no concept of privacy and rummages around until he finds a distressingly large number of unused condoms and some lube, which he proceeds to dump on the bed. He tips his chin in a gesture of defiance. “Will you?” He runs his hand over his cock again and dips his voice. “Want you to be my first, Nick.”

“Christ.” Nick covers Harry’s hand with his own and kisses his chest. His skin is hot, tanned and smooth and his heart races against Nick's lips. “Sure you want this?”

“Yeah.” Harry reaches for Nick and kisses him, soft and dirty. “Please, Nick.”

Nick believes that charity starts at home and Harry’s clearly keen to benefit from Nick’s altruistic nature, so he picks up the lube with a long-suffering sigh. He taps Harry’s thigh with his fingers.

“Come on, then. Hands and knees, Styles.”

“Brilliant.” Harry moves quickly enough that he almost knees Nick in the bollocks, which would have put a swift end to things.

“Oi. Careful with those flailing limbs.”

“Nick?” Harry looks over his shoulder. “Are you going to get your dick in me soon?”

Nick swallows, because yes, that’s the plan. Or it would be if he could stop thinking fond things about the way Harry’s long limbs sometimes remind him of a piece of over-cooked spaghetti.

“Give me a minute.” Nick gives Harry’s bum a critical glance. “Have you showered?”

“Squeaky clean.” Harry’s voice is low. “I did one of those things.”

“What things?”

“Those enema things. I got it off the internet. I Googled it.” He draws out the _oo_ in the kind of casual tone someone might use to a comment about the lovely weather they’re having for Autumn.

 _Oh my god_. Nick rubs his forehead. “You did not.”

“I did.” Harry lies down properly, evidently having given up on Nick doing anything interesting anytime soon. “It felt weird.”

Nick shakes his head because of course Harry had this planned from the minute he turned up at Nick’s, dragged him into the bedroom and started taking off his clothes like the shameless hussy he is. The idea of Harold frowning at his laptop as he looks up how to get his arse ready for Nick is sweet in the weirdest of ways. It makes Nick’s chest tight, which is ridiculous. Nobody gets moon-eyed over somebody buying an enema kit off Amazon. Nobody apart from Nick, apparently.

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, delighted.

Nick nudges Harry again. “Come on, then. As you made your arse all nice for me.”

Harry laughs, getting back onto his hands and knees.

Nick runs his fingers lightly over Harry's hole and bites back a groan at the whimper Harry makes. For someone so stupidly fit, Harry makes the weirdest sex noises, but they’re the best thing Nick’s ever heard in his life. He’s never quiet. It seems fitting that the way he begs for more is like music to Nick’s ears.

Nick takes his time, not wanting to admit to the punch of pleasure he gets with every guttural noise Harry makes. He teases Harry’s hole with his thumb, pressing against it but not going inside. Eventually he takes pity on Harry who shifts his legs apart a little, as if to say _get the fuck on with it, Grim_. Nick runs his tongue over Harry’s gorgeous bum and bites lightly down on the fleshy part of it, before he really gets to work. Harry likes being eaten out if his wiggling around and shoving back into Nick’s face is anything to go by. Nick’s never been quite so enamoured by getting his hands and mouth on someone’s arse before, as he presses his fingers into Harry’s backside to open him wide. The pads of his fingers dig into Harry’s skin hard enough to bruise and it makes Harry murmur Nick’s name like a prayer.

“I’ve got you, love,” Nick says. His heart thuds restlessly in his chest, the act of rimming someone never having felt this sweet or sexy before. Harry is so open, so trusting and so eager for everything Nick wants to show him. It’s brilliant. _Gorgeous_. Nick nudges his tongue inside Harry, sliding out only when his mouth aches, his lips damp with saliva. He lubes up his fingers and replaces his tongue slowly with one, slick finger. If anything, the sensation garners even more of a response from Harry than the thorough tonguing. He’s so hot and tight, his body clenching around Nick. When Nick curls his fingers and pulls them back, he thumbs over the slit of Harry’s cock which is already wet with pre-come and feels hard enough to hurt. 

“Do you want to come, darling?” Nick pushes his fingers forwards again, watching as they get swallowed up deep in the hot channel of Harry’s body. He curls them, pulling back and watches as Harry fists his cock with rough, frantic strokes.

“Please Nick, please—”

“Come on, then.” Nick swallows back the _love, pet, darling_ , the endearments that are already leaving him utterly exposed. He presses a kiss to the base of Harry’s spine, where his skin is damp with perspiration. He keeps working his fingers against Harry’s prostate until he comes with a shudder, clenching around Nick. Nick presses another kiss to the salty skin at the base of Harry’s spine and slides his fingers carefully out. Even though he hasn’t come himself yet, he lets Harry turn over and kisses him over and over again, just because he can. He tastes like clean sweat and salt, the achingly familiar scent of Tom Ford and boy light against his skin. Nick kisses Harry chastely along his jaw, mouths over his Adam’s apple and touches every bare inch of flesh he can get his hands on. 

“Will you fuck me?” Despite the fact Harry has already been thoroughly fucked by Nick’s tongue and his fingers, the hardness of his cock indicates he’s ready to go again. He strokes himself as he watches Nick, his eyes dark and intense.

“Yeah. ‘Course I will, love.” Nick leans down to give Harry a slow kiss. He slides on a condom and tries not to blush under Harry’s scrutiny. He arranges them in a slightly awkward missionary style and positions himself, holding Harry’s gaze as he gets ready to fuck him.

When Nick pushes into Harry he tries to ignore the niggling voice in his head telling him that he is—quite literally—in too deep.

 _I could fall in love with you,_ Nick thinks a short while later as his necklace curls against Harry’s chest and everything is sex, sweat and unstoppable heat. Mercifully the force of his climax leaves him silent and he moves down the bed, taking Harry’s cock in his mouth to shut himself up.

Harry finishes with his hands tugging greedily on Nick’s hair, and a whisper of _fuck, fuck_ that makes him sound just as unsteady and shaky as Nick feels.

They stretch out, staring at the ceiling and their hands twine together.

Nick’s racing heart finally slows, and he pulls Harry into his arms, kissing him again, and again.

They end up going downstairs to make food. They curl up on the sofa with Puppy’s head nestled in Nick’s crotch, watching Mary Berry talk about pavlovas.

When Harry leaves, Puppy steals one of his shoes and takes it to bed.

 _Tell me about it, Puppy_ , Nick thinks. _Tell me about it_.

*

Nick’s morning is fucking awful. He nearly sleeps through his alarm, Puppy won’t stop barking and a vague hangover niggles at Nick’s temples. He rolls over and is immediately confronted by Harry’s toes. His fucking _toes_. It’s like the _just friends_ days, sleeping top to toe. They’re still just friends, really. Even if Nick did say something about it being the perfect position for mutually satisfactory blow jobs and they have sex more often than they don’t. Last night was a rare exception. Harry laughed, kissed Nick’s stomach and started snoring into Nick’s crotch before Nick could so much as say _fancy a blow job?_

Nick makes as much noise as possible, because if he’s going to have to suffer it only seems fair that Harry should suffer too. Harry doesn’t seem at all bothered. He can sleep for England, that one. Nick tries not to find it endearing. He pokes Harry in the side, hoping Harry might wake up and give him a snog or something. He’s off on tour today, and the least he can do is say goodbye properly.

_umf_

That’s all Nick gets from Harry. A flex of muscle, a pat on the hand like he’s Harry’s nana and an _umf, gurgle_. Nick hates Harry, sometimes. _Hates_ him. Or he would, if he wasn’t half-way to falling desperately in love with him.

“I’m heading off now,” Nick says. “Just so you know.” He pauses and kisses Harry’s unruly mop of hair, just once. 

Harry pulls a pillow over his head and Nick makes the cabby play Rihanna on repeat the whole way to work.

He doesn’t see Harry again for months.

**False Start #3: Still Into You (Paramore)**

_I should be over all the butterflies / after all this time I’m still into you_

It’s probably not the best idea to suggest Harry comes on the radio with his diamond encrusted bottle of vodka. They’re both giddy from the night with too many beers and not enough sleep. It’s all too easy to forget how many people are listening, and Nick’s defences are well and truly down as he laughs his way through links and presses close to Harry, whose warm body is a constant, blissful presence beside him.

It’s one of those moments Nick will look back on afterwards as _iconic_ , when he tells casual acquaintances with a laugh that doesn’t quite land right. With the close friends he really trusts he admits a long time after the fact that it was less iconic and more _a stupid fucking idea, if ever I’ve had one_. With Harry, it becomes one more thing they add to the growing list of _things we don’t talk about_.

On the morning after the show, Nick listens back when he’s lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. The house is a mess from the night before, and he can’t be bothered to clean it. He just wants to hide under the duvet for a while, anxiety beginning to worm through him as the remnants of his hangover drum against his brain. He barely makes it more than half an hour into the show before he switches it off, voms in the loo and vows never to listen to it again.

He slides onto the floor, leans against the bath and waits for his pounding heart to settle. It’s fine, when you’re in the moment. It feels bold and delicious, the secret you clutch to your chest that nobody else knows. The reality is that when your own voice sounds like somebody you don’t recognise, it’s a scary thing. It’s okay pretending to be _just friends_ until the sound of a fond, Harry-drunk voice on the radio means it’s time to stop lying to yourself. 

Nick swallows around the lump in his throat and asks himself, not for the first time, _am I in trouble_?

His dog noses at him, he closes his eyes, and nobody answers back.

*

London Fashion Week is a blur of almost-touches, cameras and noise.

They tumble back into Nick’s house, hardly stopping on their way to the bedroom. Harry’s hands are everywhere, and Nick sinks deeper and deeper into the kisses that taste like spearmint chewing gum and white wine. The house hums with life around them, the lazy buzz of the party already kicking off, but Nick just wants to be with Harry. He locks his bedroom door just in case—Gemma’s around somewhere for fucks sake—and yanks off Harry’s white t-shirt, getting his hands on hot skin covered in new ink. 

They don’t have time for a long, steady fucking but Nick knows that will come later when everyone else is asleep. He manages to yank Harry’s jeans open and off, moving down his body and nipping lightly at his belly.

“Fuck off,” Harry says. He laughs, his hands pushed into Nick’s hair. The _fuck off_ quickly becomes fuck _yeah_ when Nick puts his mouth to work. He loves this crazy build up with Harry. They spend all day getting drunk and stupid, and the touches that nobody really notices linger a bit longer, the bolder they get. The sparks between them build into a crescendo until they both need a release from it. That’s when they either fall into a Hackney cab and try not to snog in front of a grumpy cabbie from Mile End, or find the nearest bathroom to fuck into one another’s hands, or mouths. 

Nick holds Harry down on the bed and sucks him off with quick efficiency. It’s not long before Harry comes down Nick’s throat, sweet, salty and impossibly lovely. Nick’s heart is so full of him, he just wants to boot everyone out and spend the rest of the night tangled up in bed. He stretches back on his sheets, staring at the ceiling as Harry returns the favour and bites back a curse as Harry brings him to the edge with embarrassing speed. 

“We should go back. To the party,” Nick adds. He brushes Harry’s hair back from his forehead, where the curls stick lightly to his skin. 

“In a minute.” Harry presses against Nick. “Let’s stay here for a bit.”

“Okay,” Nick says. He holds Harry close as his heart races and thumps in his chest. “ _Okay_ ,” he repeats. 

Harry’s asleep within minutes and Nick doesn’t have the heart to wake him, so he stays locked in his bedroom with Harry while other people have a party in his house and wonders not for the first time what the bloody hell he’s doing.

They spend more time in Nick’s bed that weekend than they spend out if it, and every whisper and groan becomes another hopeless way to say _goodbye_.

*

Harry texts into the radio on his way to the airport.

Nick makes himself a strong brew and puts on Harry’s request without saying where it came from.

The hot tea steams up his glasses and he thumbs through his messages from Harry as the song plays. He laughs at a joke about bananas and swallows around the lump in his throat at the way Harry can shift so quickly from solid, warm boy in his bed, to emoji-free text on a telephone screen.

If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost hear Harry laughing. He can picture the broad smile and the look on his face as he checks if Nick’s laughing too, like he wants Nick to approve of his joke.

Nick responds _ha ha_ and adds two kisses just for good measure. Nick approves. Nick always approves, even when Harry’s jokes are terrible. _I’m playing your song_ , he adds. 

He pockets his phone and listens to the rest of Paramore, wondering if Harry’s trying to send him messages through music. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence that the song might as well have been called _Nick’s Stupid Feelings_.

Always, always into you.

**False Start #4: Party in the U.S.A. (Miley Cyrus)**

_I hopped off the plane at LAX / I got my hands up they’re playin’ my song_

Harry has the kind of home that nobody real lives in it.

It’s full of shiny surfaces, gorgeous city skyline views and posh furniture that doesn’t look like it ever gets used. There’s no denying the house is amazing, but it’s got a clinical, washed-out feel to it. There isn’t anything that makes it feel like home, apart from the few photographs and pieces of art on the wall that remind Nick strangely of his own house in Primrose Hill. The stark frames creep over the blank space like building blocks, the wall as half-finished as Nick feels when it comes to Harry.

Nick hates L.A.. He hates the smog and the endless lines of traffic that weave through identikit boulevards. He hates the way everything is centered around Beverly Hills when there’s a vast expanse of city that remains relatively unexplored by tourists and the rich and famous that live their lives in the Hollywood Hills and next to Malibu’s sandy beaches.

It seems right that the sex in L.A. is more like the hand jobs with strangers Nick’s used to after nights out with too much booze and a craving to feel something other than the press of Harry’s fingers against his skin. There’s nothing of Harry in the place, and the bedroom looks like something out of an interior design magazine. Beautiful, but not quite home.

Nick thinks of that again, when he looks into Harry’s eyes, their bodies slick with sweat and his lips salty with the taste of it.

 _Beautiful_ , but not quite home.

**False Start #5: Infinity (One Direction)**

_how many nights have you wished someone would stay?_

“We’re going on a break,” Harry says. His voice is husky, on the cusp of sleep and the call has the tinnyness of long distance. “The band.”

“You are?” Nick isn’t wholly surprised. Harry hinted that he was thinking about a future without the endless touring over a year ago. His eyes were red and tired as he pushed his long hair back from his face and talked quietly to Nick over a bad connection and flickering WiFi. Nick wonders if all their conversations are destined to be like this. Fragmented half-truths and struggles to connect.

“Yeah. Just for a bit.”

“Mmhm.” Nick isn’t sure if that’s going to happen or not, but it’s also none of his business so he stretches out on the bed and keeps the phone pressed close to his ear. “You okay?”

“Tired.” Harry sounds it too, his voice slow and thick. “Wish I was there.”

Nick swallows around the lump in his throat. “Wish you were here too, popstar.”

“Be back in a bit. Think I’ll have some free time.”

“We can paint the town red,” Nick says, even though he knows they won’t. It’s too mad these days, getting in and out of the celeb haunts with Harry. Much better to order a curry and put on one of those romcoms he likes so much. “I’ll even buy you a drink now you’re unemployed.”

Harry laughs, low in his throat. “Thanks, man.”

“You’re welcome.” Nick presses his lips together as a wave of emotion crashes over him. He’s suddenly, achingly desperate to touch Harry. He breathes out slowly. “Take care, love. See you soon.”

“You too,” Harry replies. There’s a pause, a rustle and Harry fights back a yawn. “Love you, Grim.”

“Yeah,” Nick says, choked. “Love you too, Harold.”

Nick hangs up and puts the phone on the bedside table, staring at the ceiling. He’s not sure why he feels like crying. At this rate he’ll be a regular on the helplines they’ll probably set up for the fans. The truth is the hiatus hits too close to home for reasons Nick can’t quite put his finger on.

 _We’re on a break_ is something he’s never had to say about Harry, because there’s never been anything tangible to break from in the first place. Yet somehow his life has become a series of broken parts. The moments with Harry, the moments without Harry and everything else that fractured out between them.

*

Considering Nick and Harry have what feels like a lifetime of unspoken words between them, it’s typical that Harry can’t actually speak when Nick has to interview One Direction about their impending _hiatus_. Nick can’t help the bite in his tone when Harry messes around with his phone, his neck flushing at the unsettling strangeness of it.

Louis offers some unexpected light relief in the form of Northern bonding over pie and chips, Liam is affable and Niall is good-humoured as always. Harry is, fittingly, a robotic voice over a telephone that is completely disconnected from the wide smile and choked back laughter. A voice Nick doesn’t recognise delivered with a smile he can’t forget.

When One Direction sing in the Live Lounge, Nick doesn’t miss Harry’s pronoun change or the way he looks around for a familiar face before they start singing.

_There’s nothing where he used to lie, inspiration has run dry. Nothing’s fine I’m torn_

Nick’s heart breaks apart just a little bit more and he presses close to the glass, wishing they were somewhere other than the in-between space where people _know_ but they don’t really know, and Nick can’t be any real comfort to Harry at all.

The interview is a tremendous success and the robotic delivery of the word _hiatus_ creates something of a buzz on Twitter.

Nick should be delighted, but he isn’t.

It just feels like another thing that’s out of kilter, out of sync and coming to an end too quickly.

*

It should be impossible to look good in a suit like Harry’s, and yet.

Harry stretches his voice to the limits and puts his tongue in his cheek as Nick tries to offer sensible commentary and get misty-eyed over the loss of One Direction.

“Blow job jokes, Styles.” Nick yanks at Harry’s ridiculous floral trousers in a cubicle in the ITV loos. “Classy.”

“Always.” Harry pushes his hands into Nick’s hair and leans back against the wall of the toilet with a sigh of contentment. “Was good, wasn’t it?”

“Everyone cried.” Nick didn’t, but he wanted to. He doesn’t give a fuck about One Direction doing whatever they’re doing but seeing Harry as he was and as he is just reminds Nick of the years that stretch between them. The floor is cold and hard beneath his knees and he wonders what the tabloids would make of this. Nick’s hands falter on Harry’s trousers and he sits back on his heels with a curse.

“Grim?” Harry tips Nick’s chin and forces him to look up. “You okay?”

“‘Course.” Nick isn’t, bile rising in his throat. He swallows it back and shakes himself. “Come on, then.”

“Stop.” Harry has said _stop_ to Nick before, but it’s always been breathy and followed swiftly with _don’t stop, fuck don’t stop_. This is different. “Are you seeing someone?”

Nick laughs and tries not to sound too bitter about it. “Nope. Single, me. Always single.”

“Get up, will you?” Harry tugs Nick to his feet. “Is it me?”

It is, and it isn’t.

Nick shakes his head. “It’s thinking about the _Daily Mail_ writing about me sucking you off in the loos. Like...like I’m fucking desperate for it, or summat.”

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes flare and, miraculously, he seems to understand. He sinks to his knees and pushes Nick against the wall, sliding his hand into his own trousers. “Do you care if they write about me getting on my knees for you?”

“No one’s going to write about that. It’s going to be all about how I corrupted a lovely popstar with the world at his feet,” Nick says. “They’ll go on about my age and how many listeners I’ve lost.”

“The press are stupid,” Harry replies. “Anyway,” he continues, his hands working on Nick’s trousers, “I kissed you first. I don’t care if that’s the way Jeff spins it. I’ll tell him that I started it, if it looks like you’re going to get shit.”

 _I get shit already,_ Nick thinks. He knows Harry’s aware of it on the periphery, but he doesn’t know if Harry understands the crap he gets just for being gay, older, having wrinkles around his eyes and spending too much time with a man people still see as a bright, young, boy with the world in his hands. For the most part, Nick honestly doesn’t let himself care because he knows that everything they’ve done together has been beyond enthusiastic. It’s been sweet and tender. Awkward, imperfect and giggly. It’s been raw, desperate and sometimes so fucking lonely. It hurts, holding back all the things he really wants to say when he’s pretending it’s _just friends_. Team Lads. It makes Nick’s heart ache and his head spin, when he lingers too long over the wound in his heart that no amount of sweaty, breathless tumbles can heal. It’s just that being with Harry doesn’t hurt nearly as much as being apart from him.

“It’s fine,” Nick says. He wants to ask what Harry would describe them as without any Azoff spin, but he also doesn’t want to push at something that feels fragile enough to shatter into pieces. “Come on, Harold. Get on with it.”

Nick drops his head back against the wall, pushes his hands into Harry’s hair and tells himself it’s all going to be okay, because it is. It’s going to be _fine_.

The sharp bursts of pleasure and the realisation that Harry wants to keep doing this with Nick is enough, even as the lines between _fucking_ and _fucking up_ increasingly blur until one is indistinguishable from the other.

*

It’s been so long since Nick’s said Harry’s name on the radio, the ease with which the _Harold_ rolls off his tongue is an unexpected surprise. He laughs for just a moment too long about the floral suit and the Florence-like hair and hopes with everything he has that nobody notices.

He sends a text to Harry that night with a picture of Pig curled up on Nick’s feet.

Harry replies two days later, with kisses and the promise that he’ll _be back soon_.

Nick calls someone he’s semi-seeing and doesn’t let himself believe it.

**False Start #6: Sign of the Times (Harry Styles)**

_will we ever learn, we’ve been here before, it’s just what we know_

Harry and Nick are very good at avoiding talking about the things they should be talking about. They have years of practice, after all. Nick’s starting to think being bad at communicating is their thing. It’s why they’ve been for breakfast, gone to the gym, had lunch and are on their way back to Nick’s without Nick having heard to much as Harry humming his new single on the treadmill.

“Play it, then.” Nick thinks it’s a good decision to listen to the song when he’s driving, because he won’t have to look at Harry. Nick’s shit at lying and Harry knows him well enough to pick up if Nick doesn’t like something.

“Okay.” Harry fiddles around with his phone—that single’s under the same kind of protection as the crown jewels—and finally the first strains of the song fill the small space between them.

Nick’s car has changed since that first, awkward kiss. Harry’s hair has gone from mad curls to woodland elf prince to short, Elvis-like waves. Harry’s singing solo, without his boys in the background and Nick’s fairly sure that he’s going to be passing on the baton of Breakfast before too long.

Somehow though, they’re still right where they’ve always been, driving through London together, sharing their highs, lows, firsts and lasts.

It takes Nick a bit of time to respond because of the lump in his throat, but when he finally manages it he means every word with absolute sincerity.

“I love it.”

“Promise?” Even with all his wealth, fame and a million impressive contacts involved in his career, Harry still makes it sound like Nick’s opinion matters to him as much as anyone’s.

“Promise.” Nick glances at Harry when they stop at a red light. “Like, really love it.”

“Good.” Harry pauses, fiddling with his phone again. “I wanted it to be you, first. I’m glad it is.”

Nick wonders if they’re still talking about this, the promo they planned meticulously which gives Nick the first play of the much anticipated single or something else entirely.

“I’m glad it is too,” he says.

I’m glad it is. I’m glad it was.

*

New York is a mad whirlwind of activity and Nick gives just enough away on social media that he doesn’t end up saying anything at all.

Eileen loves it, and she’s well on her way to out-partying Nick.

When he’s sure his mum is deep in conversation with Anne and Jimmy Fallon, he manages to escape with Harry somewhere quiet. He can tell by the furrow of Harry’s brow that the not-quite-perfect key change has been playing on his mind all night, and he soundly kisses the frown away.

“You did it, popstar,” Nick says. “Out there being incredible.”

“Not perfect, though.” Harry’s cheeks heat beneath Nick’s fingertips and he pulls Nick closer. “Can I come to your hotel tonight?”

Nick swallows. “Might be late. Eileen’s off on a mad one. We’re sharing a room.”

“I’ll get another one,” Harry says, like it’s that easy. It probably is, when you’re Harry Styles. “Can I?”

“If you like.” Nick cups Harry’s cheek in his hand and kisses him, slow and soft. “’Course you can.”

“Just want to see you.” Harry waves a hand. “Without the noise.”

“Me too,” Nick says. It’s like there’s always noise around them, lately. Cameras and people popping in to say hello at Radio One, or friends coming over for big, massive meals round at his. New York traffic, restless London skies and the background hum of everything unspoken that builds into frantic static between them. “You did brilliant,” Nick says, his voice thick. “The best, love.”

“You too, man.” Harry smiles at Nick. It’s generous, pretending Nick did anything at all. He pretty much just showed up, tried to impress Jimmy Fallon with a joke, winked at Harry from the audience and fed his mother one gin and tonic too many. “Glad you came.”

“Least I could do.” Nick shrugs and wraps his arms around Harry, their hugs feeling more like home than their kisses sometimes do. “Proud of you,” he whispers.

Nick doesn’t think he imagines that Harry holds on tighter.

*

Nick’s still in his glasses, curled up with the dogs after a night in with Fiona. He asked her to stay, but she had to go home after their appearance on Instagram, chatting about Harry’s new album.

When the doorbell goes, he already knows who it is before he opens it. 

“Don’t you have an album to promote?” Nick asks.

“Tomorrow.” Harry’s restless and he pushes his way inside, stroking the dogs. “Can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.” Nick closes the door, doing a quick sweep for photographers. It’s quiet and still outside, the car Harry must have travelled in humming away down the road. Nick wonders if Jeff dropped him off. He still doesn’t know how much people in Harry’s L.A. life know about Nick. Something, certainly. All of it? Probably not. Nick isn’t sure either of them have ever known what it is well enough to put it into words and he can’t imagine Harry sitting around and talking about Nick when there’s an ocean between them and other things to pull his focus away. It’s not like Nick spends his time talking to Aimee or Pixie about Harry, either. He just usually pretends it’s not happening, switches up the volume on Corrie and makes the conversation go away.

“Come on, then.” Nick already knows what Harry wants. They make their way into his bedroom and Nick goes for a piss and cleans his teeth. When he comes back, Harry’s already stretched out on the bed naked and shameless. Nick rolls his eyes. “You’re such a tart.”

“You’re one to talk.” Harry pats the bed next to him. “Come on, Grim. Got to be up in the morning. Big day tomorrow.”

“For you, maybe. I’m just interviewing some big deal popstar. He’s got an album out.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s eyes flare with excitement and he gives his cock a slow stroke with an _umm_ of contentment.

“None of that.” Nick strips off and joins Harry. He bats his hand away from his dick and runs his fingers down Harry’s chest. “You’re not in that hotel room of yours anymore.”

“No.” Harry laughs, breathless. “Think you could give me a hand with this, Grim?”

“That what you want, pet?” Nick wraps his hand around Harry’s cock and gives it a slow, loose-fisted stroke. It’s just to keep Harry on the edge. Harry prefers hand jobs hard, slick and sitting up in Nick’s lap so he can look at Nick wanking him. He’s a bit of a perv, Harry is. It’s delightful.

“Fingers or summat.” Harry gives Nick a dark-eyed stare and hisses when Nick rubs his thumb over the slit of his cock. “Something a bit filthy.”

“Filthy, hm?” Nick thinks for a minute and then he shifts off the bed, grabbing one of his scarves. He thinks it might be Harry’s, now he looks at it. He’s still got shirts in Harry’s wardrobe and there are bits of Harry that ended up in his cupboards, drawers, in photo frames on his walls and then they just never left. “Hands up, love.”

“Oh.” Harry’s eyes flare with interest and he puts his hands over his head. He’s so willing, so trusting and eager it makes Nick’s heart full. “Okay.”

“Sure?” Nick grins at Harry as he fastens his wrists together with the scarf, making sure they’re properly attached to the headboard. “I can use it as a gag if you’d rather.”

“It’s a good scarf, that. You don’t want it in my mouth.”

“I didn’t want jizz on my YSLs either, but you didn’t seem to care about that.”

Harry laughs under his breath and tugs his hands. “Why the fuck haven’t we done this before?” 

“Because I’m a twat?” Nick kisses Harry and tastes his smile. The laughter soon fades away and it’s not long before Harry’s wriggling beneath Nick like he does when he wants something.

Even though he’s going to regret every minute of sleep he loses, Nick takes his time. He slicks his fingers carefully and pushes them into Harry with maddening slowness. He kisses over Harry’s balls and mouths over his cock, pushing two fingers deep inside Harry’s body after a few minutes of working him painstakingly open. He adds more lube until it’s filthy, slick and messy, just like Harry wanted. He can hear his own hand moving inside Harry and the gurgle and slide of his mouth working over Harry’s cock. He knows Harry’s body as well as he knows anyone’s these days, and he knows just how to bring him to the edge before properly getting him off. Eventually Harry comes with a low grunt of surprise, and Nick tastes every last bit of him.

Nick straddles Harry’s chest when he’s finished and puts lube on his hand. He tips Harry’s chin slightly and gives him a smile. “Like that. I want to look at that average face of yours.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice already sounds thick—whether with sleep or desire or something else entirely, Nick isn’t quite sure. Nick fists his cock in his slick hand and it doesn’t take long before he comes on Harry’s chest, thick stripes on the swallows and _17 Black_. Nick moves to loosen the scarf around Harry’s wrists and he’s surprised when Harry pushes him back and kisses him as fiercely as he ever has.

“I thought you were dropping off on me.” Nick breaks the kiss eventually when he starts laughing against Harry’s lips.

“Never.” Even as he says it, Harry sounds sleepy, his voice slow with it. “As if I would.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Nick says. It wouldn’t. He still remembers Harry dropping off before he properly got started on his blow job all those years ago. Now it’s just a fond memory that sits in the back of Nick’s mind with all the memories of Harry he stores away for a rainy day. Sometimes he curls up with Pig and plays them like old, familiar records. 

He wraps his arms around Harry, already knowing he’s going to be gone by the morning. “Stay until I drop off, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry promises. 

Nick isn’t sure, but the last thing he remembers before he falls into a dreamless sleep is Harry’s fingers running through his hair.

*

Harry turns up at the radio the next morning, fresh-faced and full of energy as if he didn’t spend the night with his nose pushed into Nick’s chest, snoring happily. He tugs Nick into a hug and Nick tells him he looks like a dishcloth.

The interview goes well, Harry leaves and Nick tries not to dwell on the fact that every time he does so the empty space he leaves behind feels increasingly vast.

**False Start #7: Want You Back (HAIM)**

_I’m ready for the both of us now / just know that I want you back_

It turns out that Harry is as good at acting as he is singing, and Nick tells everyone that will listen about his afternoon in an empty cinema watching Henry Stars put in a tear-jerking turn on the beaches of Dunkirk.

The interview with Harry goes surprisingly well, despite the fact Nick has to listen to Harry’s heart race over a shirtless Ryan Gosling and another one of those Victoria’s Secrets models he’s apparently got his eye on. Nick feels a bit like the old purple trainers which caused a bit of a spike in Harry’s heartbeat before it returned to normal. Nick was comfortable once, too. Comfortable and not exactly Ryan Gosling. Perhaps Nick’s consigned to the space in Harry’s wardrobe for the shoes that used to fit once, the ones he put on all the time. Now he’s gathering dust while Harry spends his cash on something shinier.

“Can I come back to yours?” Harry leans into Nick. He’s breathless, far to handsy for his own good and Nick’s never going to say no to him.

“I’ve got a thing to do after this.” Nick tightens his fingers on Harry’s shoulder. He huffs out a breath and nods. “But, yeah. If you like. Want to go back now or wait for me?”

“I’ll wait. I’ll tell Harry and Lou I’m staying for a bit. Don’t need to go to America until late tomorrow.” Harry’s fingers squeeze around Nick and he pulls away. The space he leaves feels cold. “It’s a bit like old times, this. Hanging out at the radio together.”

“A bit.” Nick gives Harry an _everything’s okay_ smile. He sounds too bright, too breezy and he suspects Harry knows it’s all for show. “A bit like new times, too. You’re part of the furniture these days, what with the single, the album, the film…”

“Good furniture,” Harry says.

“Bit like my nana’s sofa in those suits of yours.” Nick grins at Harry and pushes him away, because Harry fucks around with Nick’s ability to think clearly when he stands close enough to kiss. “Go on, then. Entertain yourself for a bit. I need to work, we can’t all be multi-millionaire popstars.”

“You do alright.” Harry looks around and pulls his ridiculous hat down on his head. “I’ll see if I can find Ian.”

“Do that. Make sure you annoy him.”

“As if I would.” Harry smiles, wide and dimpled. He would. He loves annoying Ian. It really does feel like old times and it makes Nick’s insides squirm with the memory of something past.

“Harry…” Nick wants to say something. He wants to ask about the film. About the kisses and the blow jobs they never talk about. In the end, all that he can manage is a jovial pat on Harry’s shoulder. “See you in a bit, then.”

Harry nods, his eyes firmly on Nick. He flicks his tongue over his lips in a way that really shouldn’t be allowed in public. “Yeah. Good luck, man.”

If the way his reckless heart has started beating for Harry again is any indication, Nick thinks he’s probably going to need it.

*

They start making plans for the BBC Special long before it’s announced. They walk around Manchester like they used to in the old days and miraculously, Harry manages to go just under the radar enough that they don’t get followed by a load of fans. Nick orders a chip butty, Harry pays for it and they go back to their big, clinical hotel room with views over the city.

“It’s dead nice, being back.”

“It’s home.” Harry sits cross-legged on the bed, eating his chips. He flicks through the films, no doubt looking for one of his favourite rom coms. He glances at Nick. “It’s always been home.”

“I know.” Nick swallows the last of his food and takes the vinegary papers, putting them in the bin. He grabs Harry’s empty tray and puts that in the bin too, joining him on the bed. “What’s on the telly?”

“The Notebook?” Harry gives Nick puppy-dog eyes and a crafty smile. Nick pokes the dimple of it with his finger.

“Go on, then.”

Harry grins, triumphant. He starts the film playing and shifts closer to Nick, curling up in the crook of Nick’s arm.

“No candles this time.”

“No,” Nick replies. He tightens his arms around Harry and swallows around the lump in his throat, because even without the candles. Even still.

 _This feels different from when we started_.

*

The problem with having sex with someone stupidly famous is that you’re privy to all of their (possible) relationships. Although Nick knows Harry hasn’t actually been shagging Barack Obama, he can’t help but let his mind wander places it has no business going, considering Nick isn’t exactly a paragon of virtue when Harry’s not in London.

He can’t help but compare himself to super models, girls that can give Harry things Nick can’t, faceless men that he’s sure must exist even if the tabloids haven’t caught onto it yet. In Nick’s head the men all look like James Franco with proper six-packs and a copy of Bukowski or something naff on the bespoke coffee table. He wonders if Harry notices it too. The new tricks Nick’s picked up, a different slant to his kiss or the casual suggestion of _perhaps we could_ that tries to sound as if it didn’t come from experiences with somebody else.

The sex is one thing but combined with Harry’s reappearance on Twitter and a lazy weekend tucked away in a Manchester hotel, it muddles Nick’s head. He knows that _I love you. H._ doesn’t mean a thing when it’s such a casual, public declaration but he knows Harry loves him. He thinks Harry knows Nick loves him too.

They just don’t love one another like this. Sweaty, not even close to sated and fucking into another uncertain tomorrow.

**False Start #8: Wild Thoughts (DJ Khaled, feat. Rhianna and Bryson Tiller)**

_when I’m with you all I get is wild thoughts_

A wedding seems as good a time as any to kiss someone in the sunset.

Nick leans close to Harry as they watch the sea from his balcony. Their shoulders brush together, and Harry folds his hands together, his mind clearly busy. He’s wearing a fancy off-white suit and he looks tanned and relaxed. Nick has a feverish moment of imagining it could be their wedding, before putting that thought firmly to one side. Nick isn’t the marrying sort.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Nick says. It could sound plaintive, but it doesn’t. Nick doesn’t miss Harry anymore with that dull ache that calls for ice-cream and a few wines with friends. He just misses his face, when he’s not around. Sometimes, he doesn’t even miss him at all. Harry’s on text, he picks up when Nick calls and they speak more often than they probably should. It makes it difficult to look forward, when there’s part of your heart that always pulls you back.

“I didn’t want to miss it.” Harry turns to Nick and licks his lips. “Sun’s setting,” he says, no longer looking at the sun at all.

“Yeah,” Nick agrees. He pushes a hand into Harry’s hair and pulls him close. It reminds him strangely of the first kiss. The one in the car when they were both just getting started.

“I’ve got a room,” Harry says. He presses a kiss to Nick’s jaw and puts his hand on Nick’s chest. “I’ll give you the number.”

“Kinky,” Nick replies. “Is that what you do with all the girls?”

“Not really.” Harry pulls back, watching Nick with a smile. “It’s rude, wearing white to someone else’s wedding.”

“It is.” Nick pulls at the lapel of Harry’s blazer. “Rude to wear cream, too.”

“Better than glitter.” Harry grins at Nick. He would, too. He leans in again for a slow kiss. “I like a wedding.”

“Me too.” Nick isn’t sure he does, honestly. He likes the boozy night part and he enjoys seeing everyone, but sometimes weddings make him sad. Not because he wants it, but because he doesn’t. It makes him feel guilty and weird, like he’s living life all wrong. Still, he likes kissing a lovely boy in the sunset. He likes that a lot, so he does it again.

Harry’s fingers twine with his own and his mouth is as hot and familiar as the summer sun.

*

“This song is _sick_.” Nick turns his music up so Harry can appreciate the brilliance of Rhianna properly. He’s had the song on repeat since he got to Mallorca and he wonders if he’s always going to associate Rhianna with happy, drunk nights in a castle that looks like a fairy kingdom at night.

He stretches a hand out for a towel, but Harry slips his hand into Nick’s instead. His palms are wet from the pool still and it’s terrible, awkwardly holding hands on sun loungers. Nick hopes to Christ there aren’t any paps around. 

“Harry,” Nick warns.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s just us.” Harry’s voice is thick and serious. Nick pushes his sunglasses onto his head and looks across at Harry, who’s watching him right back. Nick would be self-conscious about that level of scrutiny usually, but at the minute he’s too hungover to care. 

“Everything okay, love?” Nick squeezes Harry’s hand.

“Yeah. I like the song.” Harry squeezes Nick’s hand back. He didn’t even have that much to drink last night, but he still seems slow and confused, as if he’s a bit sun-drunk. “Want to go for a swim?”

“Come on, then.” Nick reluctantly peels himself off the lounger and chucks himself into the pool in an ungainly leap. It nearly brings up the contents of last night’s free bar, but after a touch-and-go minute the cold water makes him feel more alive than the heady midday sun.

“Nick.” Harry is close enough to touch, his fingers sliding against Nick’s hip under the water. “I might, err. Go back to the room after this. Dry off a bit.”

Nick raises his eyebrows at Harry, whose subtlety needs some work. “Fancy a hand with that?”

Harry grins, instantly relieved. “I’m very wet. It might help.”

“You’re a terror,” Nick decides, not at all fondly. “Sex on the brain, you.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t get it very often.”

“You get it loads.” Nick squawks with indignation.

“Not with you.” Harry puts his sunglasses on and kicks away from Nick. “Not very often with you.”

Nick watches Harry charm his way from the pool to the hotel and with a sigh of resignation, follows shortly after, his heart already jumping in his chest.

When he leaves a few days later, Nick captures the scenery of Mallorca on his phone and puts on the song that’s always going to remind him of the taste of Harry’s warm lips in the background.

Harry covers Wild Thoughts for Live Lounge and Nick tries not to read anything into it. It reminds him of leaving Mallorca behind, when the sunrise over the island was at its most beautiful and he told himself as car sped towards the airport that he wouldn’t miss Harry at all. 

**False Start #9. Medicine (Harry Styles)**

_treat you like a gentleman_

“I’m the new Carolina, am I?” Nick is poised between furious anger, the overwhelming urge to giggle and a desperate kind of heartache that makes his chest tight.

“Who?” Harry’s voice is sleep-groggy and slow. There’s the creak of a bed, and a crackle as Harry gets the phone steady. “Do you mean Flacky?”

“No, you little twat.” Nick glares at the phone. “I mean the one off of that song of yours. Her dad saw it on the telly, said some knob with a guitar in a suit that looks like a sofa is singing about you.”

Harry laughs, low in his throat. “He didn’t say that. The suit was pink, actually.”

Nick makes a strangled sound. “Harry fucking Styles—”

“You mean Townes,” Harry offers helpfully. “She was called Townes.”

“Townes, Caroline, Carolina, Taylor fucking Swift, I don’t bloody care.” Nick’s chest heaves as he takes a painful breath. “It’s polite to tell people when you’re putting them in a song.”

“Putting them in a what?” Harry sounds just uncertain enough that Nick wonders if he’s imagining the whole thing. It’s not like Harry would have put that first blow job in a fucking _song_. Is it?

Nick steadies his breathing, self-doubt creeping in. “Had to vet the Ents news today. Everybody wants me to sit there and give an opinion on this new bi anthem of yours.”

“Sorry, man. I didn’t think.” Harry’s voice is tinny through the phone, the sheets rustling in the background. There’s a whispered conversation and a door closes with a _snick_. Jesus fucking _Christ_ there’s someone there. Nick tries to swallow back the wave of furious jealousy that threatens to overwhelm him. Nick doesn’t get to be jealous. He’s got a boy on the go himself. He doesn’t get to be anything, never has, when it comes to Harry. Nick shags around, Harry shags around, they don’t talk about the times they shag each other and the world keeps turning.

“I won’t mention it.” Nick’s breath leaves him with a hiss. He frowns at the phone, because he doesn’t want to be a dick if this is Harry’s big coming out moment. He steadies himself and takes a more measured breath, his anger ebbing away. “Should I mention it?”

“No.” Harry’s voice is low, his breathing quiet down the phone. “I’m not giving interviews about Medicine.”

“Okay.” Nick swallows back the question he wants to ask and laughs, slightly high-pitched and hysterical. “I like the song. Good, innit?” He’s a bit embarrassed to admit he watched a performance of it on Tumblr.

“Thanks.” Harry’s voice is warm and soft. He pauses for long enough that Nick’s dying to break the silence, before he speaks again. “It’s about you.” He draws out the ‘ou’ in that low, familiar, Harry-like way of his. It makes Nick’s heart get too big for his chest.

“Yeah.” Nick’s shoulders sag, the tension leaving them. He knew the moment he heard it, even as he talked himself down from making outlandish assumptions. “I know.”

“It’s…” Harry huffs out another breath. “A lot of it’s about you. Not all of it, but some. Bits and pieces, here and there. Stuff I haven’t put out yet.”

“Oh.” Nick swallows and bites back everything he can’t risk saying. A giddy recklessness takes him over. “I’m not going to be doing Breakfast anymore. Had a meeting.”

“What?” Harry rummages around, muttering something to the person in the background and the door closes again, more firmly this time. “You never said.”

 _Never said a lot of things,_ Nick thinks.

“No. August, they reckon. Greg’s going to do it instead for a bit. I’m doing Drivetime.”

“Always liked Drivetime,” Harry says, voice quiet.

“Me too.” Nick swallows around the lump in his throat. “Very brave, popstar. Singing about your first blow job on stage like that.”

Harry laughs, the sound so warm and rich, Nick thinks he could listen to Harry laughing for the rest of his life.

“Not that brave.” Harry sounds proud, nevertheless.

“It is, love.” Nick rubs his jaw, his stubble scratching against his palm. “Dead brave.”

“Thanks.” Harry lowers his voice and Nick wonders if he doesn’t want the mystery person in his home to overhear. “You’re coming to London, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I’m coming.” Nick swallows and closes his eyes, his breathing finally back to normal. “Can’t wait.”

“Mum wants to see you,” Harry says, slow and deliberate. “She misses you coming over.”

“Should be home more then, shouldn’t you?” Nick says, without any bite. He doesn’t mean it in a shit way. Harry chats to Anne all the time. Even Nick speaks to her on and off. They’ve got a thing going on WhatsApp where Anne asks after Eileen and Nick pretends he isn’t already looking forward to Christmas in March. 

“Tell me when you’re doing the radio thing. I want to be there.”

“Okay.” Nick isn’t sure Harry can be there, because he knows nothing about the exact timing yet. Even if Harry is around, Nick isn’t sure that he wants him in the studio. Being there for the first day or the end of an era when you’re leaving nights to take on the biggest gig in radio is different to coming in for the last day of Breakfast. 

“Promise?” Harry doesn’t sound like he believes Nick.

“Okay,” Nick says again, because the details can wait. “You’re not going to write anything else about me, are you?”

Harry huffs another laugh into the phone but doesn’t reply.

They hang up and that night Nick dreams of a battered notebook full of half-finished songs.

**False Start #10: 1950 (King Princess)**

_tell me why my gods look like you_

Nick’s not in the right headspace for thinking about _Nick and Harry_ the week that Breakfast comes to an end.

They take a walk in the park with the dogs and find a quiet spot to sit, Nick puffing on his cigarettes and Harry trying not to get what looks like very expensive tennis-whites too muddy.

“You okay?” Harry sits on Nick’s denim jacket and stretches out, his palms flat on the grass. He tips his head back to look at the sun, his nose tanned and lightly peeling.

“Fine.” Honestly, Nick isn’t sure. He’s a ball of pent-up energy and part of him just wants it to be over, now. It’s the waiting, that’s the worst. The waiting and the build up for Greg’s new show. He walked into work the other day and there was a massive fucking poster of Greg in reception. Nick doesn’t care, really. He wants it to go well for Greg. He _loves_ Greg. But it still smarts, like a bruise that someone keeps prodding. 

“Not doing mornings might be sick,” Harry says. 

“Might be.” Nick stretches out, chancing putting his head in Harry’s lap as he watches the clouds. He can see bright swatches of blue and the tiny tufts of barely-there hair on Harry’s chin. “Fiona looks well good. I’ll be able to stop buying all them face creams.”

“You’ll never stop doing that.” Harry looks down at Nick, his face breaking into a grin. “You and those fucking creams.”

“They keep my skin young, Harold.” Nick sits up, throwing a stick for Pig to catch. She gives it a disdainful look and trots off to find a different one. “Let’s not go on about it.”

“Okay.” Harry shrugs. He reaches for Nick and they kiss. Harry’s hat is soft and ridiculous under Nick’s hand and he misses the feeling of Harry’s curls beneath his fingertips. He loses himself in the sensation of the kiss for a while, the itchy, restless sensation still prickling beneath his skin.

“Put me on Instagram,” Harry says. He pulls back from the kiss which was a roll in the grass away from getting very _Call Me By Your Name_. “They’re going to think I’m coming in, otherwise.”

Nick touches his fingertips to Harry’s cheek. “Sure?” He never puts Harry on social media. Never, ever, not since so long ago it’s the sort of thing that feels like someone else did it. A hazy memory of times before Harry pulled back from social media completely.

“Yeah.” Harry’s cheeks are hot beneath Nick’s fingertips. “I don’t want people to, like, think I don’t care. Because I do.”

“Me too,” Nick says. He leans in, kissing Harry as soft and sweet as he ever has. “Me too.”

He takes a picture of Harry sitting in a tree, pretending he’s modelling for Gucci.

They go back to Nick’s and for the first time in ages, Nick lets Harry take him and closes his eyes against the mad rush of feelings that threaten to overwhelm him completely.

**#Outro**

“I like it,” Harry says. He looks around Nick’s new house, taking everything in. He seems smaller than Nick remembers, slight in his t-shirt and fancy trousers. He’s got a distinct whiff of the seventies about him. Nick’s into it. Nick’s always been into it. He even liked the suit that looked like Ikea curtains.

“Thanks.” Nick closes the door and tells the dogs to shush, which they don’t. “I fancied a change.”

“There are a lot of those,” Harry says. “Changes.”

“I saw.” Nick hands Harry a glass of red wine and shows him into the living room. “You’re kissing men in public now.”

“I was never hiding it.” Harry shrugs, glancing at Nick. “I didn’t know what it was. Men. A man.”

“Oh.” Nick looks at Harry fondly. He appreciates that for a fleeting moment Harry might have been thinking he was Nick-sexual. Nobody’s ever been that. “Why did we never talk about it?”

“Because I didn’t know what to say.” Harry stares at his wine. “I’m trying to be better at that.”

“Everything’s ending,” Nick says. It makes him scared, like he wants to reach for his puff-puff and curl up with Pig and Stinky until he can breathe properly again.

“Some things.” Harry gives Nick a small quirk of a smile. “We never have.”

“Haven’t we?” Nick shakes his head. “Seems like we’re all about the endings.” It’s true, when he thinks about it. That’s all he and Harry have. A lot of false beginnings and a hundred different endings.

Harry ponders that. “I don’t think so. I’d say we’ve been trying to get started.”

“Didn’t do very well, did we?” Nick glances at Harry. There’s something sad and quiet about him that feels at odds with the Harry that Nick’s used to. Harry the performer, with all his magnetism and energy. Harry the friend, with his laughter, terrible jokes and big, beautiful heart. Harry the…well…whatever Harry is when he’s going down on Nick and making dick jokes or pushing into Nick deeper than it seems like anyone else ever has in all the ways so many people have never quite managed.

“We did okay,” Harry says. He looks at Nick, his smile hovering with uncertainty as if it might be gone in a flash with one wrong word. “We could do better.”

“Probably.” Nick reaches for Harry. He puts down his wine on a coaster, because he’s tidy like that, then comes easily into Nick’s arms. Nick presses his nose into Harry’s neck and breathes in. He doesn’t smell like Tom Ford anymore. “You smell like me,” Nick says.

“I know.” Harry shifts in Nick’s arms and looks at him. “I like it.”

“Oh.” Nick traces his finger over the slant of Harry’s jaw, focusing on the dimple of his smile. “What’s that about?”

“Dunno.” Harry’s voice is thick. The same kind of syrupy-slow it often gets when Harry’s around Nick. Over the years, Nick’s put it down to tiredness but now he sees Harry’s eyes are bright, watchful and wide awake. “I got it for tour. Like the candles.”

Nick swallows. Harry’s been buying Diptyque for years. “The ones that smell like home.”

“My mum never had candles, Grim. Only you.” Harry gives Nick a slow, steady smile. “Do you really think everything’s ending?”

“I don’t know.” Nick touches the curl of Harry’s hair, longer now at the nape of his neck. It makes Harry shiver. Lovely, responsive Harry. Nick’s so soft for him, it’s ridiculous. “How—” Nick breaks off because he, of gobby radio DJ fame, suddenly can’t find any words.

“How did you miss it?” Harry shrugs, stretching out on the sofa and pulling Nick over him. “Because you’re a dickhead, probably.”

“Could be because you’re bad at talking. I’m not going to sit around analysing lyrics like one of them fans of yours.”

“You should.” Harry frowns. “Actually, don’t. I’m writing new ones.”

“Oh?” Nick grins down at Harry, unplucking the buttons on his shirt. “Any more lonely wanks in hotel rooms?”

“Fuck off.” Harry laughs, grinning up at Nick. He pauses, looking serious. “Not if you fancied coming with me.”

Nick swallows. “I can’t, like, come on tour.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Nick shrugs. “It’d be weird. I’m not going to follow you around, mooching off you.”

“You wouldn’t be mooching.”

“I’d be giving you blow jobs on tap. There’s people that you can pay for that.”

“I don’t want _people_.” Harry takes a breath. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. I’m not on tour for ages. Tour’s finished.”

 _For now_ , Nick thinks. “Where to now, then?”

Harry’s throat bobs, his voice rough. “Here, maybe. I thought we could go back to Mallorca.”

“Okay.” Nick runs his hand over Harry’s hot skin and his stomach clenches underneath Nick’s palm. “What’s this about?”

“I want to do it properly.” Harry pushes up, kissing Nick on his jaw, messy, uncertain and almost exactly like the first time. “For real.”

“It’s always been for real.” Nick puts his hand to Harry’s cheek and kisses him properly, his heart racing in his chest. “Hasn’t it?”

“No one else, though.” Harry says, fiercely. “No dancers.”

“No supermodels,” Nick counters. 

Harry raises his eyebrows. “No models for you either.”

“Just the one.” Nick grins at Harry, pleased when his cheeks turn pink. “A proper fancy one. Gucci, and everything. Even had a lamb lick him in the face. Took a chicken to a fish and chip shop.”

“I hate you,” Harry says, fondly. “I hate you so much.”

“I know, love.” Nick’s voice cracks and he bends to kiss Harry properly, fiercely, completely. With the full force of all the things he’s never said. “I hate you too.”

*

“They’re playing our song,” Nick says. They’re eating curry in Nick’s bed—which is a disaster waiting to happen with Harry’s terrible coordination—and Harry’s rooting through Netflix to find a film they haven’t already watched a million times. The radio crackles in the background and Nick finds he doesn’t mind it now, listening to Radio One. It was a hell of a ride. It’s time to start looking forwards now, not back.

Harry frowns, listening. “This isn't our song.”

Nick shrugs. “It is for me. It’s one of them.” He and Harry have hundreds of songs, by now. An infinite playlist.

“One of them?” Harry looks at Nick curiously.

“I’ll make you a mixtape.” Nick kisses the slope of Harry’s shoulder. “Eat your curry, before I do.”

“Okay.” Music forgotten, Harry puts on something with a distinct whiff of the Nicholas Sparks about it and eats a forkful of his rice. Nick pinches some of his potato thing and leans back against the pillows. 

He steals a glance at Harry as the film credits roll, and for the first time since they started doing this it doesn't feel like another thing that's coming to an end.

*

That autumn, Nick makes a mixtape and takes Harry back to Deia where they don’t get married again. Harry writes him into songs, some he even finishes, and sings an old pop classic to Nick when they go to karaoke in Soho. His hair’s curly and untamed again and kissing him feels just like it did a decade ago.

The winter is as full of music as it is thunderclouds and the first smattering of snow London's seen in a while. The songs play on vinyl that went out of fashion and came back in all over again, filtering through tinny laptop speakers, radios and car stereos. They go to a sweaty concert just before Christmas, pressed together in the crowd and nobody gives a fuck about two men kissing beside them.

Nick wonders if somewhere in a small town in the North of England a new boy is picking up a new guitar, as a boy in Oldham wakes up hot and bothered, staring at a poster of Harry Styles, confused and scared like he's just on the precipice of something that's going to change his life forever. Perhaps he records his first podcast so he can pretend he’s on the radio, and listens to Annie spinning new hits with reedy vocals, soaring poppy choruses and the best new tunes Nick swears he’s heard all year.

On Boxing Day Nick has a delightful conversation with Anne over roast parsnips and they toast to Robin and Pete with a small glug of port. They get giggly after too much wine, the new kitten takes up permanent residence in Nick's lap and Harry shows off singing along to Wham.

They see in the New Year with a massive party at Nick's and because a party wouldn't be a party without Nick sneaking off with Harry, they go to Nick's room, Harry blows him and, thankfully, nobody walks in.

"Happy New Year, Grim," Harry says. His voice is shagged out, sleep-slurry and content. "Love you."

It's so easy, so innocent, that Nick can't help but think of all of Harry's casual _I love yous_ that he dismissed as just Harry being Harry, with his big, full heart and earnest declarations of affection.

"Happy New Year." Nick swallows and holds Harry tighter, his words muffled as he presses his lips against Harry's hair. He still smells like Nick. Smells _like Nick's_. "Love you too, popstar," he says, and this time he says it because he means it. "Love you too."


End file.
